


The Hawk's Wings

by ShootWithIntentToKill



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Pre-Avengers (2012), Pre-Canon, Pre-Everything Basically, Pre-Iron Man 1, Pre-Natasha joining SHIELD, SHIELD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:22:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24505351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShootWithIntentToKill/pseuds/ShootWithIntentToKill
Summary: Clint Barton looked across at Coulson, striding across the SHIELD cafeteria, eyes locked on his target, and wondered how anyone could possibly mistake Coulson for anything less than an unrelenting, unstoppable force of well-pressed suites and vast arrays of expressions that could only be qualified as “unimpressed”. It was safe to say that Clint, who had fought for his life against dozens of well-trained mercenaries, genocidal maniacs, and actual torture, had never feared for his life more than in this moment.oOOoHow Clint Barton became a pilot.
Kudos: 19





	The Hawk's Wings

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was re-watching the movies and I thought, Clint Barton has a bunch of explainable skills that fit with his backstory and (for some reason) one of the best pilots in the MCU. So this is my way of explaining how and why Clint Barton became a pilot.

Those who met Agent Coulson usually thought that he was a plain, bland man. Nothing seemed to phase him, and he had a perfect poker face, but most people only saw him as a man in a nice suit. By the time they realised their mistake, it was too late. Phil Coulson had perfected the art of being so boring, so forgettable, so _ordinary_ , that most people could see him a hundred times in a single day, and still not even think about him when they realised that their nefarious, well-written scheme of ‘seventy bullet points for world domination’ was missing.

Clint Barton was not one of those people. Clint Barton looked across at Coulson, striding across the SHIELD cafeteria, eyes locked on his target, and wondered how anyone could possibly mistake Coulson for anything less than an unrelenting, unstoppable force of well-pressed suites and vast arrays of expressions that could only be qualified as “unimpressed”. It was safe to say that Clint Barton, who had fought for his life against dozens of well-trained mercenaries, genocidal maniacs, and actual torture, had never feared for his life more than in this moment. (Well, that was actually a lie, but, in all fairness, Croatia had been _bad_.)

“Wasn’t me, didn’t do it.” Clint said immediately, as Coulson approached the table he was seated at.

“Yes,” Coulson agreed, “that is exactly the problem. You didn’t do it.”

“Wait, what?”

“The Birjand report. You said you would get it to me by the end of the week.”

“Yeah, and it’s Tuesday. I’m pretty sure that there is nowhere in the world that considers Tuesday to be the end of the week.”

“ _Two months ago,_ Barton. You told me _two months ago_ that you would finish the report and have it on my desk by the end of the week.”

“Well, there’s a simple explanation to that…” The marksman trailed off, and flicked his eyes over the rest of that cafeteria. Someone watching may have thought it was just vigilance, SHIELD’s best assassin keeping an eye on everything and everyone in the room. Or maybe it was just to avoid eye contact with a certain demanding agent.

“So, what is it?” Coulson prompted

“What’s what?”

“The simple explanation as to why I don’t have a report sitting on my desk detailing exactly why the man you were supposed to be protecting turned up dead from an IED in his car. It had better be a very good explanation.”

“In all fairness, SHIELD hadn’t decided whether I was there to protect him or execute him. You should thank that other assassin for making your job easier.”

“How about, instead of debating with me the merits of taking out the target instead of letting him lead us to other persons of interest, you put it in the report.”

“I gave my report to Fury.”

“You gave a verbal report to Fury on the assassin. SHIELD protocol mandates that agents must give a written report on any operation lasting more than 72 hours, including a day by day walkthrough of events for any operation lasting less than two weeks. The time between you touching down in Iran and the mark’s time of death was five days and seven hours.”

Has this guy memorised the entire SHILED protocol handbook? That thing is over a thousand pages long, Clint thought to himself. Honestly, it seemed like something that Coulson would do just so that he could recite it to some poor, unfortunate agent while they drooled on the ground after he electrocuted them with a taser. Out loud he said: “yeah, sure, I’ll have it on your desk by the end of the week.”

“No, Barton. I want you to do it this afternoon. Come to my office when you finish lunch, where you will sit down and I will watch as you write that report. I don’t care if it takes you all night. You will not leave that room until it’s finished.”

“Ah, yeah, I’m afraid I can’t do that. I’m kind of busy this afternoon. May’s teaching me how to fly a Quinjet.”

“Really?” Coulson asked sceptically, and his face moved into a new form of unimpressed. Clint was impressed. He hadn’t seen that face since the nearest bathroom to Coulson’s office was flooded because someone had poured hot glue down the drains (and that, of course, had nothing to do with O’Neill replacing all the arrow tips at the range with suction cups. Personally, Clint was blaming the sci-ops guys. They were always experimenting with weird stuff).

“May is teaching you to fly?” Coulson pressed.

“Yeah, is that so surprising?”

“Other than the fact she is not a flight trainer, and I, let alone she, would never trust you in the pilot’s seat of a plane, and she only got back from the Maldives last night?”

“Yeah, apart from that.”

Coulson sighed, turned around, and waved to Melinda May, who had just entered the cafeteria. She walked over.

“I was just asking Barton for report about Birjand.”

“That cluster-fuck?” May asked, “wasn’t that three months ago? Why would you still need the report now?”

“See?” Clint exclaimed, “Exactly. The guy is dead cos some assassin blew him up. Why does any more than that even matter?”

“Well, he claims that he can’t write the report today because you’re teaching how to fly a Quinjet.”

“No,” May said, as succinctly as ever, and then turned and began walking away.

“One second, May,” Coulson called to her turned back. “Can you get that Maldives report to me by tomorrow, Pierce wants it to show to impress the world security council?”

Barton grimaced, though whether at the mention of Peirce or the World Security Council Coulson was unsure. He seemed to hate them both.

May turned back around. “No,” she said. “I’m teaching Barton how to fly. It will probably take up a lot of my free time over the next few months, so the report will unfortunately be put on hold until then.” She then glanced at Clint. “Two thirty, in the hanger. Don’t be late.”

May then strode out of the cafeteria, unconcerned by the stares following her, including from Coulson and Clint. When she was gone, Coulson turned back to Barton. He just shrugged. “I have flying lessons.”


End file.
